


In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the CP meme prompt: It’s 3AM and someone can’t sleep. A dark, lonely night for an “incorrigible old romantic.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> The song referenced is “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning,” originally recorded by Frank Sinatra (it can be found on YouTube). Imagine it on solo piano, played in a quiet, melancholy manner, with Roger Allam singing the words. Along with opera, SinatraFan!Douglas is my headcanon.
> 
> Bringing stories over from the CP meme & my Dreamwidth page.

Douglas rolled over for what felt like the hundredth time, turning his pillow yet again to the cool side and giving it a fluff for good measure. Carolyn seemed especially determined to wring every last minute of work she could out of her pilots lately, and he’d crossed more time zones than he could remember in the last ten days. His internal clock was thoroughly scrambled and sleep had eluded him for hours. But if he was honest with himself, jet lag wasn’t the real reason he was still awake.

The bed was colder than he was used to or liked. He’d rummaged out a second blanket from the linen cupboard, but it hadn’t helped. He was used to having another person in bed with him and even weeks after Helena’s leaving, he was having trouble adjusting. Most nights he could sleep, but there were bad ones like this when the bed felt cold and lonely and just too big.

Several of the flights had been cargo ones with only Martin and himself, and Carolyn had booked them into single rooms every time. Even just hearing another person breathing softly and shifting under the sheets across the room helped him sleep. A couple of times the rooms had had a single large bed. Although they’d slept with their backs to one another, leaving at least a foot between them, the warmth of another body had crept across the expanse, soothing and relaxing him.

There was a time when a drink would have unwound him wonderfully and helped him sleep, but he was nearly nine years’ sober and planned to stay that way. He didn’t keep sleeping pills around because they tended to leave him feeling doped-up the next morning, and even when he had a day off there was no telling when Carolyn was going to call at some ungodly hour with a last-minute booking.

He’d spent a half-hour in the deep soaking tub in the bathroom, easing the stiffness of the hours spent on the flight deck, wishing he could afford to replace it with a tub with whirlpool jets. Then an hour in bed, re-reading ‘The Sun Also Rises.’ He’d thought he was relaxed and drowsy when he finally put the book on the nightstand and turned out the light, but sleep hadn’t come.

He had no one to cuddle up with and spoon. No one to nuzzle awake for a quick shag to help him get to sleep. It wasn’t that he was randy, just—lonely. Achingly lonely. He could hide it from everyone, even himself, during the day. He could be Douglas Richardson the sky god, teasing Martin, butting heads with Carolyn, sidestepping Arthur’s attempts to feed him questionable food. But he had none of those distractions now.

Douglas stretched and shifted, fluffing the pillow yet again. The neighborhood was so quiet it almost felt like he was the last person on the planet. As he settled, he nearly knocked the half-empty mug of cold chamomile tea off the nightstand. He hated the taste of it; the only reason there was any in the house was because it had been Helena’s remedy for sleepless nights and she’d left a box of it in the pantry when she’d moved out. It was a remnant of her damned health kick; turning thirty-five had started her on herbal tea and yoga, then health food and organic everything, then she’d progressed to tai chi—he stopped that train of thought at once. 

He needed the loo. Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed and down the hall. Afterward he wandered through the moonlit house, stopping in the lounge to look out the large window onto the quiet tree-lined street. It was a neighborhood of semi-detached houses, connected by their garages rather than a common wall between living areas. It was an unusual arrangement but one he liked, especially with his gleaming baby grand piano taking up nearly a third of the lounge.

It was his pride and joy, the only thing he insisted on keeping after every divorce. It dominated the room even more than usual now, after Helena had taken the two armchairs and the end tables, leaving him the sofa and coffee table he’d had when they married, along with a forlorn-looking floor lamp currently standing alone in one corner. She’d also taken the dining set in the room beyond, adding to the air of desolation.

He sat down at the piano, slid the cover back from the keys, engaged the soft pedal, and began playing quietly. The pure, clear tones barely carried in the quiet room, and he felt sure the neighbors wouldn’t hear a thing. He ran through a few scales, loosening his finger joints, warming up the muscles. He’d been playing earlier in the evening, after making dinner for one, and the sheet music was still arranged on the stand. His fingers moved over the keys, almost caressing the music from them as he segued into a melody. He drew a breath and started singing, his warm baritone barely carrying beyond the piano’s notes. For once he was singing only for himself, heedless of the effect of his voice. There was no one around to impress, anyway.

‘In the wee small hours of the morning,  
While the whole wide world is fast asleep,  
You lie awake and think about the girl  
And never, ever think of counting sheep.

When your lonely heart has learned its lesson,  
You'd be hers if only she would call,  
In the wee small hours of the morning,  
That's the time you miss her most of all.’

He added a bridge echoing the melody, the notes seeming to almost hover in the still air.

‘When your lonely heart has learned its lesson,  
You'd be hers if only she would call,  
In the wee small hours of the morning,  
That's the time you miss her most of all.’

As the last notes died away Douglas sat absolutely still. Closing the cover, he rested his arms on it and lowered his head, letting go, letting himself cry silently. There was no one to see or hear him, no one to judge, no one to put on a show for here. Only his piano stood witness.


End file.
